


disarray

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Drug Addiction, Relapse, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: So you don’t understand why you’re feeling like this all of the sudden, seemingly out of nowhere. You don’t understand at all because it’s been years since this last happened and you have no fucking clue why the urge is back now just when you thought it was over, that it was in the past. Just when you were starting to feel like, “yeah, I understand why people like this life thing so much.”You know what you’re supposed to do in situations like this - you’re supposed to call someone, even if they don’t know, just so you’re not alone (just so they can stop you from hurting yourself).That’s not what you do at all.
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 68
Collections: criminal minds hurt/comfort





	disarray

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii

You’re having a staring contest with the bathroom door again, trying ~~and failing~~ to stop yourself from thinking about what’s hidden inside, taped under the sink like the secret it is even though no one else ever comes into your apartment. 

But wait, that’s not quite true anymore is it? Because you’re not alone anymore, not technically - you’ve been seeing someone for the past few months. He - Spencer - comes into your apartment every once in awhile, though you more often end up at his instead of the other way around. 

And he’s great. He’s fantastic - he’s always willing to listen to you rant about anything and he always picks up the phone, even when he’s away for work (unless he’s literally in the middle of a takedown or something like that). 

So you don’t understand why you’re feeling like this all of the sudden, seemingly out of nowhere. You don’t understand at all because it’s been _years_ since this last happened and you have no _fucking_ clue why the urge is back _now_ just when you thought it was over, that it was in the past. Just when you were starting to feel like, “yeah, I understand why people like this _life_ thing so much.”

You know what you’re supposed to do in situations like this - you’re supposed to call someone, even if they don’t _know_ , just so you’re not alone (just so they can stop you from hurting yourself). 

That’s not what you do at all. 

You’re not really sure why, you’re not really sure of anything right now. Maybe it’s because you’re ashamed (because you thought you were over this, you’re _supposed_ to be over this). Maybe it’s because you just don’t have the energy to fight it right now. 

Maybe it’s because if you don’t tell anyone, you can pretend it didn’t happen. You can avoid the pitying looks and clandestine glances. You can lie to yourself that _it’ll just be the once, just once, and then never again._

As soon as you stand up from the couch you’ve passed the point of no return. You made your decision long before you actually have the blade in hand.

You were always one to keep it hidden, always kept it to the belly and hips and thighs - the places where no one can see, even in short sleeves. That hasn’t changed, you’ve learned, not at all. 

(And maybe if you were thinking more clearly, you’d worry about the fact that you have a boyfriend now. About the fact that if things get serious those places won’t be so secret anymore. But you’re not thinking clearly, no matter how much flawed logic your brain churns out, and so it doesn’t cross your mind at all)

…

You hate that you’re doing this again, you hate it so much. 

One night you’re staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror and you can barely stop yourself from _shattering_ it because you look at yourself and zero in on the scars (and the scars that aren’t yet scars, but are instead still red and weeping)

And so you spend _hours and hours and hours_ scouring the web for ways to stop. For methods that actually work. (And pointedly ignore everything that directs you to a crisis hotline or towards seeking professional help. _I’ve done this on my own before, I can do it again. No one else needs to see this, no one else needs to know. If I can just get past this it’ll all go away and I can forget it ever happened_ )

You take long walks and listen to loud music. You prepare hot bubble baths with aromatic candles. You binge re-watch ten entire seasons of your favorite show. You take to carrying a set of felt-tip pens everywhere with you and covering yourself in little drawings and scribbles. When you’re home alone, you drag ice cubes over your skin in hopes that it will quell the urge. 

And maybe those things work for a little while. For a few hours. But you can’t do them 24/7, and the longer you do them for the less they work. The urge doesn’t fade away like all those self-help websites say it will, it builds and builds and builds and you cannot _cannot_ stop thinking about it until you just _give in_. 

And so you do.

You’ve been pulling away from your friends, from Spencer too, you know you have been. But you don’t want them to have to deal with this, you don’t want to be a burden. (You don’t want to lose them, either, and you know if you keep going down this path you will. One way or another)

… 

Spencer shows up unexpectedly at your apartment one night with a somber look on his face and you’re sure he’s about to end it. That he’s fed up with the lying and sneaking off to the bathroom and refusing to let go of your bag and squirreliness about your apartment. You let him in without a word, lead him over to the couch and brace yourself for what you’re so sure you’re going to hear -

“(y/n),” he tries to catch your eye, but you just stare down at the coffee table, unable to look at him when he says it, “I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. And I mean _anything_.”

_Wait what?_

You turn to look at him in your surprise and realize he doesn’t look fed up or disappointed or anything like that. He looks concerned and…sympathetic? No, he looks _empathetic_. _That doesn’t make sense, why would he be empathetic? What does he think is going on_ -

You’ve been silent for too long and he takes it as his cue to continue. He thumbs over the crooks of his arms and says, “I thought I could do it on my own and I couldn’t,” then falling silent and letting you digest his admission. 

You brow furrows in confusion - not because you’re surprised that he guessed (you’re sure you haven’t been hiding it as well as you think you have been, and besides. It’s literally his job to figure out the minds of others), but because you never would have thought it’d be someone like _him_. 

He projects such an air of put-togetherness and innocence, despite his job. He’s so knowledgeable and _logical_ \- he seems like exactly the opposite of someone who would turn to unhealthy coping strategies.

(It’ll make more sense to you in the future, when he’s told you more about himself and his upbringing and everything that’s happened to him over the years. But you don’t know that now, and so you’re confused)

Your immediate instinct is to deny it, to pretend this isn’t happening right now. So you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” in a rush, holding back a wince once it comes out because of how cliche and obviously false it is. 

He just nods like he expected you to say that and replies, “I think you do. But if you’re not ready to admit to anything, do you think you can just listen to me talk for a bit?”

You can’t help but nod.

“Okay,” he takes a deep breath, as if whatever he’s about to say is difficult for him to get out ( _it probably is_ , you think, _if it’s anything like what I’m dealing with_ ), “I want to preface this by saying that I’m not trying to make this about myself - if I’m right, and I think I am, we don’t even have the exact same…problem, shall we say. Anyway, I just think that you feel ashamed, I know _I_ did, and that it’s stopping you from reaching out for help.”

He’s right, of course he is. It’s your pride that’s making you try to do this on your own. It’s the fear of being judged by others, by people who just _don’t understand_. It’s the fear that even with help you won’t be able to stop.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of how to start, before reaching down and unbuttoning the cuff of his left shirt sleeve, rolling the loose fabric up as far as it will go. You realize you’ve never seen the upper half of his arms - even when he wears his sleeves rolled up it’s only to just before the elbow. 

What’s revealed aren’t self-harm scars like your own, but the tell-tale marks left by past IV drug abuse. The scarring from injecting the same sites over and over, trying to achieve an artificial high. He leaves them out on display, but it looks like he’s fighting the instinct to pull his sleeve back down and cover them up (and isn’t that a familiar feeling). 

He says, “I know it’s not the same, but the mentality behind it is. Self-harm is also an addiction - it’s like a runner’s high, your body releases dopamine in response to pain. And then it becomes a habit, and those are notoriously hard to break, even when you really, _desperately_ want to. You keep going back even though you know it’s hurting you. You try to resist, to find other ways of dealing with things, but you can never stop yourself from going back in the end. It’s familiar. And it’s comforting because of that, at least in the moment that you’re doing it.”

He turns back to you and takes your hands in his, staring down at them as he continues, “I know how that feels. And I know that _I_ thought I could do it on my own, I _did_ do it on my own…the first time. And then things started changing in my life and it was stressed me out and I went back because I hadn’t actually built up any, you know, more helpful patterns of thought or strategies for… _not_ doing it.”

You realize tears are slowly trailing down your face because yes, that’s exactly how I feel. All you can manage to say is, “And how did you…stop? The second time?”

He looks up and meets your gaze, and for some reason it’s not difficult to keep yourself from looking away. 

“I learned how to talk about it instead of…trying to pretend it never happened, I guess,” his voice is barely above a whisper now, just loud enough that you don’t have to strain to hear it, “I was in bureau-mandated therapy for a while, but I just lied my way through it. I told them what they wanted to hear so that they would reinstate me. 

“I couldn’t talk about…addiction to the bureau psychologists, so once I realized that I couldn’t completely… _get better_ on my own, I found a private practice to go to. At least with her, I stopped pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. I started going to NA, and hearing other people talk about feeling the same way _I did_ helped sometimes. 

“And I’m not saying that the same things that helped me will necessarily help you. But I learned that I don’t always have to deal with everything by myself, that needing help isn’t the same thing as _failing_. I learned to be _proud_ of every day that passed sober instead of _ashamed_ that I needed to count in the first place. 

“I guess I just wanted you to know that if you need someone to talk to who won’t judge you, who _can’t_ judge you, I’m here. And I will help you get connected with whatever kind of resources you need, if that’s what you want me to do. You can always call me if you need help, I don’t care what time it is. Okay?”

“Okay,” is all that comes out of your mouth, but you mean so much more than that. You mean _thank you for understanding_ and _thank you for noticing_ and _this is such a far cry from, ‘just stop’ that I don’t know how to react, thank you for understanding why I can’t ‘just stop,’ thank you for making a suggestion that might_ actually _help, thank you for phrasing it in a way that makes me believe you._

You say none of that. Instead, you fall into his embrace and sob. You’re pretty sure he heard it all.


End file.
